Telling
by wherefore-suchas
Summary: In which Chloe investigates and gets in over her head, Chad and Heinrich make an appearance, Clark disapproves and Lex is the subject of scrutiny. Chlex-ish.
1. prologue

**Telling**   
  
_I'm a wreck, I'm obsessed, I'm insane.  
Isn't that what you want me to say?_  
-- Liz Phair 

Um, fuck?

My mind races through possible responses to the given situation and all it can come up with out of legions of sparkly double bonus vocab words is fuckity fuck fuck tra la la. I'm finding it pretty damn difficult to concentrate, much less reason out how I reached this point exactly: exhausted, filthy, hopelessly lost, backed into some hedge maze, thickety thing with little branches poking into my arms, becoming intimately acquainted with Lex Luthor's tonsils.

Somewhere, something smells like pine or eucalyptus. I can hear the creek. I find it hysterical that I should focus on anything like that at a time like this. Kind of like the night Chad came over and misunderstood motives led to things getting a little out of hand and he had me bent over backwards in this really weird way, tugging at the hem of my shirt, and all I could say was "Hmm, I should really clean under the radiator." Total mood killer. Not that I meant it like that. Maybe only a little. Chad's a really sweet goth boy with fantastic taste in makeup, but...

Back to the present, right? It's so hysterical that I laugh into Lex's lips, and isn't _that_ just like a tongue twister? His tongue seems adequately twisted if you ask me. Then he's pushing away and I'm still pretty much laughing like an idiot. Only my taped up ribs hurt and so it turns into this kind of laugh-wince thing, which I'm sure looks fairly odd.

He steps back to a more comfortable distance and arches an eyebrow in that snooty way he has sometimes. "Not the reaction I'm accustomed to."

I give some serious thought to punching him for good measure. He's bigger than me (sad fact is, most people are), but I'm probably one of the few people in Smallville who knows just how many people have managed to take him down in the past few years. Not a fighter that Lex. Not at all. I bite the inside of my lip, wondering briefly about the first part of that old saying.

There's something strained in his posture and I realize that he's bracing himself, expecting to be hit, maybe. Preparing for every contingency at least, so I finally decide not to give him the satisfaction.

"This isn't what I meant when I said, 'exclusive interview', Mr. Luthor."

"Lex."

I shake my head. "You haven't earned it."

"What was it you said before? 'I'd say the situation demands it'?"

I look him square in the eye and we stare each other down for a bit. "I wouldn't say it would at all, actually."

*** * ***


	2. i

Everything started with coffee.

Well, okay, that's not exactly true. Everything started when my mother met my father and Lex's mother met his father. And after that, things just became this hurtling two-person train wreck, disaster narrowly, unknowingly averted, until the coffee started it all in earnest.

Contrary to popular belief I don't wholly subsist on coffee. I believe very much in that balanced breakfast they show you on the back of the cereal box with milk and juice and toast and eggs and maybe half a roasted chicken on the side. Outside of fake commercial world, I'll have my glass of orange juice with my coffee and my pop tart, thanks.

It was a Wednesday then (cruelest of all cruel weekdays so far from a weekend) and we were utterly and completely out of every one of the vital items on my list of things which comprise a complete breakfast. I figured it was because I'm not the world's most conscientious housekeeper and dad was out of town. More than that, he was out of the country. Kind of. Lex had sent him up to Canada to inspect some of their fertilizer operations. And when I say 'inspect' I mean 'spy on.' But not that exciting, high-rolling world of finance, James Bondish-type way, otherwise I was pretty sure Lex would have gone himself.

I vaguely decided that poorly-stocked cabinets equaled a tip from the cosmos that the Beanery'd been hurting for my money recently. Ergo I should pay them a visit and correct the oversight. Then I got lost for a minute or so trying to imagine 00Lex and failing miserably. By the time I realized how much time I'd just wasted, I was grabbing my stuff and flying out the front door.

If anyone had bothered asking me, supposed former caffeine queen, I would have told them that two coffeehouses could not, no sir, survive in Smallville, Kansas. When you think about it, the idea is completely ludicrous. Especially considering that one of said coffeehouses is partially owned by Lex "Hostile Takeover Poster Person" Luthor. What actually happened when Lana opened the Talon is a study in small town sociological demographics. Thanks to the unending amateur poetry slams, the Talon quickly cornered the youth market, and people I swear I'd never even seen before started showing up at the Beanery--tall farming types with kind, weathered faces and nervous hands, all sipping their espressos and playing checkers and Scrabble on worn game boards.

There are more and more days, most days now, when I prefer the Beanery. It's the place where everybody knows my name, right? Or it was until people I didn't know started showing up. Sometimes they wave to me anyhow (this is still Kansas, after all). And hey, it's a place where I don't feel like I'm stuck inside a live episode of _The Young and the Clueless_ with Clark and Lana shuffling little circles around each other. Three whole years of that business and not an inch closer, I swear. I can't even begin to tell you what a relief it was when I finally got off _that_ bizarre joyride to nowhere fast.

On that particular morning when I dashed in the front door there was a wait. County fair aside, a line of any sort in Smallville practically deserves its own banner headline: _Queue of Three Forms Inside Weed-and-Feed, Customers Mildly Irked_. And this wasn't just some piddly three-person thing either, it was more of an Elvis-has-not-yet-left-the-building style crowd. I wondered if the management had finally broken down and spiked the coffee with crack or something. Rising on my toes, I bounced around, trying for a better view. Finally, seeing an opening, I darted through, wriggling low under someone's elbow, which (naturally) was the precise time when said elbow snapped down, hitting me square in the center of my back and sending a cascade of iced coffee over my neck.

"Ow," I managed, almost too shocked by the liquid running down my top to say anything at all.

"Excuse me," the person on the other end of the elbow said, but in a way that indicated, in fact, that I wasn't at all excused, and probably wouldn't be anytime in the near future.

My shirt squished against my skin in lots of really disgusting ways. I looked up, trying to keep my back as flat as possible to avoid spreading the coffee around. Ah, that explained it. "Sabotaging the competition. Tunnel under, blow them at the moon. Don't worry, I won't sue."

"Cold coffee," he said flatly, eyebrows inching together. "No case." He lifted the cuff of his dress shirt and inspected stray freckles of coffee on the material with a small frown.

That guy? The McDonald's coffee? He didn't get it. That made me want to laugh. They'd made a _Seinfeld_ episode out of it and he didn't get it. "Kidding? Granted, the reference is a couple years out of date, but..."

Dropped the cuff. "Oh. Yes, of course."

It occurred to me too late that Lex Luthor lived in a world where even a friend of a friend might sue you over an accident with a caffeinated beverage. That flustered me for a minute and I forgot to think about how absurd I must've looked, doubled over in front of possibly one of the most interesting people I'd ever met, with beads of coffee falling from the ends of my hair. Eventually, the forgetfulness wore off and I was left feeling stupid and a little irritated that _he_ would let the situation go on as long as it had. "Even though this is, doubtless, all my fault, you think you could brave the crowd and find some napkins or something?" I didn't dare look up to see if he caught the sarcasm.

"My pleasure." It was another minute before he returned. I accepted the napkins, twisting my arm behind my back to blot at the spill. "I have a table. Why don't you join me?"

"And miss the chance to further destroy my dignity? Lead on." Once we were settled into the overstuffed chairs on either side of Lex's table I applied myself to my problem in earnest. The napkins did a decent job of absorbing the worst of the liquid and I was left with a creepy, clammy feeling between my shoulder blades. "What's with Grand Central over there?" I finally asked him, jerking a thumb towards the still-crowded front counter.

He shrugged. "New scones in the pastry case?"

"I was thinking crack in the coffee."

"Likewise, a well-reasoned conclusion," he said flatly. I didn't have a clue if he was joking or not.

"You're probably closer to being right," I said, my voice coming out more dissatisfied than I meant it to be.

There was this strange little huff from his side of the table and I realized that Lex Luthor might have just swallowed a laugh. "It's a small place, Ms. Sullivan. It's a _crowd_. You're from Metropolis; you should be reasonably familiar with them."

"It's not the substance of the thing, it's the situation. Crowds don't exist in Smallville, or at least they're a very endangered species. Even you must've noticed that."

"Regardless, I wouldn't hold out hope that this is in any way material for the Wall."

"How did you...oh. Clark?"

"Clark."

It came over me all of a sudden how bizarre this was, like we'd been dropped into an alternate dimension where billionaire friends of your ex-crushes sat around exchanging small talk with you in coffeehouses when you should be in school. I snuck a look at my watch. Yup. Maybe the second half of the day would be salvageable, but there was no way in hell I was making it to my morning classes. I must've been quiet for too long because Lex slid a penny across the table between us, tilting his head fractionally.

"Not even a nickle to adjust for inflation."

"We Luthors didn't get where we are today by just giving our money away." It had the feel of a recycled speech and I wondered if it was a hand-me-down from Lionel. The question rested on the edge of my tongue, but I held myself back, hoping for...I don't know what. A confidence maybe. He and Clark were so close. Clark and I were...not, not anymore. A reporter hopes for confidences, rarely gets them and prints them when she does. The way of the world pretty much sucks sometimes.

"I was just thinking you never answered my question about why you were here."

"There was a question?" he asked mildly. I was instantly on high alert. Code yellow, prepare to fire photon torpedoes. "I recall something about the moon and sabotage, or am I mistaken?"

"Fragmentary lectures on medieval warfare are wasted on you, I see."

"I know more about siege engines than you think."

"I doubt it. I always figured you knew pretty much everything there is to know about things like that." I stood after that, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of my clothing. "I should get back home and change if I want to even make a stab at being educated today," I said by way of explanation. I think...I'm pretty sure that he was watching me while I was walking out the door. If I was a different person I think I'd have looked back to see if I could tell what he was thinking, but I didn't want to spoil it if he was thinking something bad.

I was...interested, I'll give him that. I didn't know much about him. No one did, except maybe Clark. But Clark is Clark and he's got that hypnotizingly white smile. It makes everyone want to spill their guts. Even so, I think sometimes people keep things from him, not to be devious or malicious, but because they don't want to be responsible for making him less charmingly innocent than he is.

We all see what's on the outside of lots of people. Those personality traits and bits of history trail off them like Marley's chains in _A Christmas Carol_. Never the whole story. It's like knowing who lives in a house by the laundry they hang out to dry. I mean, if _you_ had some pleather dominatrix corset-thing would you just bust it out so your neighbors could see? Probably not. And Lex was a lot more interesting than pleather anyhow, even if the analogy is definitely too weird and kind of awkward.

I touched the soggy back of my shirt and groaned. Sometimes it was really hard to think of the frequent and wanton destruction of my wardrobe as a necessary sacrifice to the gods of journalism.

*** * ***


	3. ii

I pointed my car in the direction of home and promptly got distracted.

Springtime in Smallville is completely the most amazing thing I've ever seen. It always seems to happen right when you're absolutely positive that one more day of grinding, monochromatic winter'll be a bullet point on your suicide list of reasons to end it all.

That's always when something gives in the weather and the days get longer. Crocuses push through the dirt into still-cold air and I invariably find myself wanting to spend an entire day at least driving around town in a giddy, spring-induced haze, poking each individual flower back into the earth until it's safer and warmer for them to come up. 'Chloe' means 'blooming,' but my thumb's always been much more black than green. Maybe brown on a good day. Either way, I'm in a bad position in terms of telling plants to do anything. Overnight almost, the landscape is dotted with purple and yellow and white and purple-veined white, and then the trees turn out their tender, chartreuse leaves. You can get lost in it, just watching. Everything seems to happen so fast it's like all the plants are busy unrolling new shoots and flowers as soon as your back is turned.

I'd left the town proper when there was a huge noise and a flash to my left. Shocked, I jerked the wheel to the right, skidding onto the shoulder. I coaxed the car back to the road, stealing a quick look in the direction the sound had come from. A thick plume of smoke was climbing over the treetops. It looked heavy and black and greasy; almost solid, rising in cumulus rounds from the general direction of Dr. Richter's house.

The car drifted onto the shoulder again before I registered that it was off the road at all. I braked hard, hopped out and almost lost the damn thing until I realized I hadn't set the parking brake.

I pounded up the driveway, sliding a little on the gravel. Two things kept chasing each other in my brain: _Whatever made that smoke is bad. Whatever made that smoke is news._ I was actually concentrating much more on not getting winded than the deeper ethical dilemma inherent in bad versus news.

Allowing for the fact that I was digging, two-handed, in my bag for my camera and cell phone, I made it to the top of the driveway in record time. Before I could accidentally dial 911 into the viewfinder, the sight of Dr. Richter's car brought me to a screeching halt. The metal was blackened and there were flames licking all around it and inside. It looked almost exactly like one of the buildings in the background of Bosch's hell.

Just living in Smallville should prepare you for a lot of things. I mean, it's like the weirdness capital of the Midwest at least, if not the country. I've seen more freaks and mutants and genetically altered stuff than even the most rabid paranormal investigator could hope to see in a lifetime. Only Dr. Richter's car wasn't like that at all, because he was a (relatively) ordinary man and this wasn't conspicuously the result of meteor freaks. For a horrible moment I just stood there, blinking hard like the dark figure in the driver's seat was just a shadow that I could sweep away.

Then...

Then everything seemed to slow and my legs folded under me. I sat down hard on the gravel driveway. Tiny pebbles dug into my palms. Shock had me pretty well paralyzed, which is embarrassing to admit because I always figured on being the strong one in any given situation. Then, the wind changed direction, blowing a cloud of bitter smoke into my eyes. I scrambled halfway to my feet, coughing, crab-walking under the worst of the smoke until I got clear. I punched in '911' and told the dispatcher to get someone, anyone, up here, like, yesterday.

I'm afraid I might have been screaming a little and swearing a lot. Something happened in my head that felt like Sprite -- there were these thoughts, all these things I knew I should say, bubbling around, but they disappeared before I could tell what they were.

This is what I thought of, only it wouldn't have been useful to the dispatcher: _Dr. Richter works at the plant with my dad. I knew him some. He's a biotech chemist who always asked me about school and the Torch. I liked him. He was just so endearingly dweeby. His graying, sandy hair was manic (almost like Doc Brown's from Back to the Future only with more color). Every time I saw him, he was wearing an unironic plaid bow tie that I hadn't seen before. Sometimes Dad and I got fliers in the mail from him with a web address on them. I went once. Dr. Richter breeds pygmy hedgehogs and names them after characters from Tolkien. The hedgehogs are $100 each._

I held onto my memories of Dr. Richter and they strengthened something inside me. There was no way I could just sit around like a moron while I waited for the cavalry. Quickly, I stripped off my shirt and held the damp part over my mouth while I inched closer to the driver's side door. I can't say for sure what I was doing because I knew there was no way in hell that Dr. Richter wasn't...

But what if he had been? People survive these horrible things when no one thinks they can.

The car was unbelievably hot. I could see him inside. The outline of his profile was muffled by blowing smoke. If I'd dared to remove the makeshift mask, I'd have shouted to him that everything was going to be fine. It's what my dad used to tell me those first few months after Mom left. Wanting to say those words then, I realized with painful certainty that Dad had been using them as much for himself as for me.

There was one of those push-button handle mechanisms between me and Dr. Richter. I didn't remember until a few seconds after I curled my hand around it that metal conducts heat superbly. It was one of those hot/cold pains and I fell back onto the driveway again. I was suddenly freezing except for my hand, which felt like it was on fire. Everything was numb. Everything was dim. I was somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness and I dreamt that I saw Dr. Richter turn his head and look at me. He pressed his own burnt hands against the glass.

Sirens were screaming in the distance. They throbbed. My hand throbbed. _Hold on. Hold on._

*** * ***

**(short) author's note:** I've never written a SV fic before, so constructive criticism is always welcome. Of course, I could have picked an easier place to start than with Chlex, right? I wanted to write something that was (relatively) current to the SV universe, but I wanted to avoid the whole love triangle issue and the Helen issue -- so viola! a fic set 1 1/2 years in the future. Does that make it futurefic? Eh. I hope you enjoy it.

**scifichick774:** I had the hardest time with Lex! Mostly because I see him as a very very controlled person and writing from Chloe's POV it's hard to get into his head. That makes him puzzling (in a good way), but also difficult (for me) to write.

**Tandy:** Thanks for the encouragement. I really appreciate it since this is my first exploration into the SV universe.

**Renee:** I'm glad you find it at least a little witty. I can never tell if what I'm writing is at all humorous or just dumb. Eep. I'm quite fond of the Chlex, but it's tricky since the characters haven't really had a significant conversation since...uh...the first season? Sigh.

**onescape:** Woo! I've always thought that any potential Chlex relationship _should_ feature snappy dialogue as one of its main components. I'm trying my best at it.

**Alwaysright:** I know you from that epic Evo-thing I was writing for so long! Hi! I'm thrilled to hear that you found their interaction believable. I really want everyone to stay in character.


	4. iii

I'm not sure how long it was before I regained consciousness enough to realize that I was being unceremoniously dragged across the gravel. Instantly, I had about a million little scrapes on my legs and my mostly-bare back and I was thinking I shouldn't have gone with the skirt instead of pants and where the hell did I put my shirt? Spring madness catches the best of us, now doesn't it?

Whoever it was got me all the way to the grass before letting my arms drop.

"When you have a minute, John?" John? John. John Wallace. Five volunteer EMTs in Smallville and he was one of those few (those happy few). _Now who...?_ My brain was muddy. "What did you possibly think you could do?" the person asked quietly. Seemed kinda angry.

I was becoming more alert by the second, enough to feel the cold grass on my legs and back and the pain in my burned hand. "Can't let...Clark save...everyone," I managed, even though my teeth were gritted so tightly my jaw ached. Something -- fabric, heavy -- settled over my torso. It smelled like cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon and all kinds of really warm spices that I couldn't quite identify.

"Ms. Sullivan," the voice was so many things right then: bossy, mad, amused and maybe even a tiny bit admiring. Of course, that decided it in a nanosecond because there was only one person I could think of who might convincingly be eight million things at once.

"Mr. Luthor," I returned as firmly as I could. And all my intentions of matching him blow for blow completely dissolved because I was still cold and I still hurt. "It's selfish if I say this isn't my day, isn't it?"

"A little."

"Because Dr. Richter, he's...um..."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure I should be talking to the Torch's star reporter right now."

Annoyance flared, warming me slightly. It was completely psychosomatic, but I'd take whatever the hell I could get. "I'm in no condition to take notes, okay?"

You could practically hear him stiffen. "I didn't mean it, Ms. Sullivan. You can choose not to believe me if you want, but I don't know why this happened."

"But it has something to do with LexCorp, right? Because Dr. Richter worked..."

"I don't know that either."

"Then why are you here?" Talking was doing a fairly decent job of keeping my mind off my hand.

A little sound that seemed like a bitter laugh. "I wanted to know why the cups in the Beanery were rattling." Softer. "You have a point about not letting Clark save everyone."

"So why are you here with me?" I cracked my eyelids and peered through my lashes at the blobby figures working around the car. It was still very much on fire. "I'd think you'd be bossing your way over there, demanding answers."

Before he could respond, John appeared and knelt beside me. "Trying to be a hero again, eh, Chloe?"

"Name me one time when I've ever been a hero, John, I dare you. I'm just lucky that Dad's got good health coverage." I craned my neck a bit so I could look at Lex. He was standing some distance off, watching the firemen work on the flames. "I guess I should thank _you_ for that," I told him. He didn't answer.

John gently drew my hand out from under the fabric thing covering me and set to work cleaning my burns and bandaging them. The antiseptic wash he was using stung at first and I sucked in a sharp breath.

I can't be sure, but I thought I hear Lex say, "Penance," but what penance and for which of us I wouldn't have even begun to guess.

John finished up and patted me on the shoulder. "You're lucky you didn't get a really good grip on the car."

"Funny. I don't feel lucky," I said automatically, then felt a rush of guilt that my first response should be flip and selfish. I snuck a quick look at Lex, but if he'd heard he showed absolutely no signs of it. That was a relief for some reason. "Sorry," I told John. "I'm still working on that whole becoming-a-good-person thing." He smiled and told me I wasn't quite Hitler yet. I set up an interview with him for the end of the week. News was still news.

I managed to clamber to my feet using only my good hand and my elbow as leverage. My ruined top was lying on the ground a few feet away, but the thought of trying to struggle it on past the bandages was intensely unappealing. Instead, I wrapped myself in the fabric thing, jacket -- Lex's unless I missed my guess -- that had been covering me before, sliding my arms carefully into the sleeves and buttoning it closed as best I could.

"No comment," Lex said when I reached him. Something was up. More than usual. Lex Luthor isn't like you or me. Everyone's got these Tells, just like in poker. If you learn them you can see right away if they're lying or uncomfortable. Thing is, most people's Tells are pretty much the same so it's easy to read them. Not Lex's. It's not like I've got any Grand Unified Lex Luthor Theory or anything, but I decided to go with my gut on this one.

"You're nervous," I blurted out before I could lose my nerve. I wasn't angling for a story, I swear.

At least not much.

"Ms. Sullivan," his voice seemed dragged over a very long distance. There were also loads of rocks in the way, "as much as I admire your tenacity and investigative prowess, if I were you, I wouldn't delude myself that I posed a significant threat to LexCorp. You aren't even a blip on the radar."

I didn't know quite what to do with that. He'd given me something with one hand and slapped me with the other. I wanted to fight back. Sneaky. Tunnel under, blow him at the moon. "You know any history besides the Greeks?" I asked him, aware that I was being incredibly rude by possibly insulting his intelligence. Worse, I was being incredibly forward, which, with a Luthor, might've just been one of the stupidest things I'd ever done and I was under no illusions that my life to that point had been a model of prudence and smartness.

"It's true, my father's lectures didn't look much past 323 B.C., but I think he might have tossed in a Roman from time to time," Lex offered, unruffled.

"What happened in...oh. Alexander."

"A petty death. I'm not sure my father forgives him for it."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that. The Luthor family problems were miles over my head. But I'd gotten off track. There was something I wanted to say. A warning maybe, or an apt observation. I took a mental step back, trying to take stock and survey the entire situation. It occurred to me that that was A+ Harvard MBA tycoon type-thinking and I bit back a smirk.

Lex looked tired, a little ragged around the edges. There were faint smudges of purple, like newsprinty fingermarks, under his eyes. For the first time I could remember, I wondered if what I wanted to say would hurt him at all. Maybe it wasn't so incredibly important. Maybe it was only me needing to feel clever at his expense. Isn't that what Lex eventually drives everyone to? Outclassed and threatened, they overcompensate and make mistakes.

When my mouth moved, I still didn't know if I wanted to take responsibility for what I was saying. "He was never quiet in his mind, never thought himself secure. His eyes whirled about, his body was privily fenced, his hand ever on his dagger, his countenance and manner like one always ready to strike again."

Lex tilted his head infinitesimally and looked at me. "I presume it's not as amusing for you if I don't guess incorrectly."

"I wouldn't presume to expect anything in particular," I replied shakily. He _was_ upset. Partly, I think, because he couldn't place the quote and partly because he thought I was laughing at him. I'm wasn't. I wouldn't. Not then. "Sir Thomas More," I offered.

Something deep in his face sparked with remembered knowledge. "The _Man for All Seasons_ himself. Bane of young highschoolers nationwide."

"Not your kind of guy?"

"Martyrdom is highly overrated."

"Reluctant martyrdom. More for the cause than the situation, if I remember correctly."

"You're not the only one who's read _Utopia_, Ms. Sullivan."

"Chloe." He was startled by that. His hand stopped partway through a sweep over his head. "I'd say the situation demands it." I lifted my newly-bandaged hand.

"I suppose the fair thing is for you to call me Lex."

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable."

"The only thing that makes me uncomfortable is you comparing me to Richard the Third."

"Ah, so you got it, huh?"

"_The History of King Richard the Third_ by Sir Thomas More," he said formally without a trace of humor. I could tell he was joking.

"It's just that, sometimes, More didn't seem to think Richard was as horrible as everyone else did. In spite of himself." I'd startled him again.

"Except for the part of the story where he murdered small children, right?" His mouth went gone all grim in a way that I didn't like at all.

"I think More felt like Richard didn't know how awful everything would be until the shit really hit the fan." I was having more and more trouble meeting his eyes. They kept shifting. I stared down at my bandages instead. "Um...that didn't come out like I thought it would. Why don't you..." I looked up. Lex was gone, walking briskly toward his car. His shoulders were slightly bowed and I was wishing I knew why. "...just forget it," I finished softly.

*** * ***

**poor_ophelia:** I think Lex just takes a while to warm up to people (becuase, I think he's pretty funny too). There _are_ some funnier Lex parts coming (I think). In case you didn't see my answer to your question in the reviews section: Chad is "Smallville's only goth" who Chloe met when he borrowed her eyeliner. Heinrich is an attractive Austrian who works for the phone company. I've never read a fic where they make an appearance, so I wrote them into mine.

**Tandy:** You have no idea what I'm capable of in terms of cliffhangers! Don't worry though, they're (mostly) not in this fic. I guess I like going out with a bang? Either that or it's the sadism again...

**moonmaid:** I'm glad you're liking it so far. This story kind of sat on my head until I wrote it, possibly because I like Chloe's voice and wanted to try my hand at writing something in that voice.


	5. iv

It occurred to me for about ten seconds that evening that it might be a smart idea to have Clark and Pete help me with the legwork on the story about the explosion, but I was already developing a fiercely proprietary interest in the thing. Happens sometimes. I can't get worked up over what brand of tater tots they're serving in the cafeteria these days, but a mystery stirs up my childhood ambition toward intrepid-girl-detective-ism.

Of course, nothing barring an act of god would've kept them (and anyone who wanted to know, really) from finding out exactly what happened to Dr. Richter and how I'd played a tiny part in it. They cornered me at my locker after lunch the next day, both wearing bright red kool-aid mustaches. That particular piece of ridiculousness helped hold my resolve to the sticking place. I was about to lie, horribly and thoroughly, to the two people I was usually first to confide in.

There's poetic justice in that, I realize. Something changed in our three musketeers dynamic about a year and a half ago, after that Hindenburg of a dance but before my hastily-devised experiment in Sullivan-Lang cohabitation. It's between Clark and Pete and it definitely smells like a secret to me, only I've never quite gotten up the nerve to demand access. I'm too afraid that they'll kick me out of the clubhouse and then where would I be? Maybe not so far from where I am now and there's something in that too. Prosaic justice maybe?

Game day and the hallway was a noisy maze of red and yellow letterman jackets and pompoms. At least baseball season is generally less heinous than football season, right? I mean, Kansas? Football? They go together like ham 'n' eggs. Practically the state religion.

"You okay, Chlo?" Clark asked, taking my non-bandaged hand in that way that invariably used to make me melt until about a year ago. Chloe Sullivan! Now with liquid center!

"I'm standing here, aren't I?" I reminded him gently.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah. Good point. I just feel like there's something I could've done..."

I shook my head. "You can't save everyone, Clark," I said. "And besides, I wasn't even the one who needed saving." He looked pointedly at my bandages. "Hey, that's just the idiot tax, okay?"

"You tried to save him, Chloe. That's not stupid," Pete cut in.

I sighed and shook my head. "I know that. I just feel...bad. Dr. Richter deserves way more attention than I do. He's the one who's..." I couldn't finish. My mouth worked, up and down, guppified.

Pete took pity on me. "I guess the Torch gets an exclusive on this one though, huh?" Then he seemed to realize what he'd just said and his eyes got really huge. "Not that it's cool to take advantage of...I mean...Dr. Richter..."

Then it was my turn. "I wasn't actually planning on writing a story about it."

Clark dropped my hand and covered my forehead. "She's not feverish."

"You're kidding." Pete had this goofy grin on then.

"A good journalist has to be objective. I don't see how I can be when I was basically at ground zero."

They looked lost and confused. Because, up until about 30 seconds before that, I was their ball-breaking nosy journalist of a friend. Those characteristics helped them tell me apart from everyone else. I felt a twinge of regret that I was lying so totally. On the other hand, I couldn't have them underfoot or in danger. It wasn't fair and it would have been wrong to have them take the risk.

"If you say so, Chlo," Clark said, still confused. "We'll see ya later, okay?"

"Yeah," I agreed, "but you guys might want to wipe your faces. It looks like you've been drinking red 40, neat." Pete looked quizzical. "Kool-aid with lunch?" I suggested helpfully.

Two sets of fingers flew up in embarrassment. It was wrong to laugh at a time like that, but I couldn't help the chuckles that rolled through me. It was so simple and stupid and perfect. Maybe I was losing my mind. What a comfort that would be.

*** * ***

Kind of amazing to think about what one summer at the _Planet_ did for my hometown credibility as a journalist. People I used to have to wheedle and cajole practically until the cows come home...well, they're exactly not breaking down doors to talk to me yet, but they're not throwing up any shiny new steel-reinforced ones either.

I hadn't spent as much time poking around in LexCorp's wheelings and dealings as I did in LuthorCorp's and even then there wasn't much poking that I did do. I mean, I never could get wholly behind Lex's hard-nosed conviction that his father is, in fact, the Prince of Darkness, but on good days, I'm smart enough to recognize that going up against the Luthors single-handed isn't the best approach. But then, just when I was wishing I had even one solid inside source, my well-considered hands-off policy was definitely coming back to bite me in the ass, and not in that fun way either.

I chewed absently on the end of a pen, thinking simultaneously about the necessity of good sources and the best possible way to phrase the headline for Jenny's review of some action-adventure, shoot 'em up something-or-other movie. _The last time I saw a movie in the theater..._

I didn't even wanna think about it. Depressing.

All I could come up with in the second category were various Principal un-approved things involving the word "ass" in some way. I dropped the pen and tugged at my hair. Maybe I could coax inspiration that way. I rolled my head back, peering upside down at the wall clock. Eight p.m. Damn. Good thing Dad was out of town. I love him, I really really do, but I can only camp out at the Torch like that when I know he's not around. That way there's no chance that I'll feel guilty about not spending every iota of my free time with him. It also helps that I know he won't be calling a million times to ask me when I'm coming home. Dad and I have this kind of bashful co-dependency thing going on. We love to see each other, but I think we're also both afraid of crowding each other too.

My most productive hours are always after the official school day ends, not only because it gets so quiet, but because it's not everyone who's got the right to be here. Stupid little power trip, isn't it? Well, it's all mine.

I raised my hands over my head, stretching and letting the vectors of possible dinners develop in my brain: was the bread moldy? did we have any peanut butter? was it crunchy or smooth? what if I just scrapped the peanut butter sandwich thing and made an omelet or something? did I have enough money for pizza? In the midst of considering that final option, I was gathering my things and heading into the hallway. The key was practically turned in the lock when the phone inside the office rang. Shit. I threw open the door and promptly tripped over the cardboard filing box that holds all the back issues from the past few years. I really should just spend the 20 bucks for a real McCoy filing cabinet. The phone was still ringing.

"I'm coming!" I told it angrily. Reaching long, I snatched up the receiver. "Smallville Torch."

"Chloe? Is that you?"

It was John. At least I was pretty sure it was. Hard to tell because his voice was really weird. Scared. "Yeah, it's me. You sound awful."

"I...something happened, Chloe."

"What is it?"

"I can't really talk right now. But I overheard something about Dr. Richter." It was obvious that John was broken up over it, whatever it was.

Ask for a source and ye shall receive. "Have you told the sheriff yet?"

"No, not yet."

I didn't like that. "Why not?" Good journalism is one thing, but obstruction of justice is something else altogether.

"I'm not sure there's anything he can do."

I was simultaneously intrigued and concerned. Pragmatically I knew the situation was absurd. What on earth could I do that the sheriff couldn't? Subjectively, I was completely thrilled that John wanted my help before anyone else's. "Do you want to meet me somewhere?"

"I'd better not right now," he said, sounding calmer.

Wait just a goddamn second. What was happening? That sinking feeling? That sickness pooling in the pit of the stomach? That was my story slip slidin' away. "John, I'm coming to see you." I prayed wildly to those fickle gods of journalism that I wasn't pushing him too hard. He was quiet for a long long _long_ time. I knew he hadn't hung up because I could hear him breathing. "John?"

"Okay. Tomorrow. I have to think." He laughed and it was a little hysterical.

Before, I think, I lied. Smallville might be the weirdness capital of the planet, but, somehow, people here aren't any more prepared to absorb un-ordinary tragedies than anyone else. That's comforting in a way.

"Great. How about six-ish? Is that okay? I'll come over."

"Sure." He hung up. I was standing there in the dim office, staring at the phone. _What could possibly have John so rattled?_ He was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, not in the boring way that description's usually used, just in that you couldn't imagine an uncharitable thought ever occurring to him. He was a volunteer EMT for god's sake. I shook my head and left for real, locking the door behind me.

Even thought it was only a little after eight, Smallville's streets were pretty empty. I made it home in record time and eased gratefully into my pajamas (man-style with an abstract, red and white flower print). Then I padded downstairs, on the hunt for dinner. I hoisted myself up to kneel on the kitchen counter so I could easily dig through the cabinets. Could someone tell me why we have about 10 million cans of condensed milk? I don't even know what condensed milk is good for. Looked to me like Dad was stocking up on paprika too. I found a lonely packet of Easy Mac behind the cans and decided that my lucky star was definitely out.

While I measured out the right amount of water, I tried my best not to think about John and what he might tell me and how worried he sounded. _Compartmentalize, Sullivan. Control your rabid journalistic instincts for once._ Distracted, I didn't bother to wait until the powdered cheese thickened around the noodles. I bolted the Easy Mac, barely tasting its fake cheesy goodness.

I was John's friend, wasn't I? _I really should make sure he's okay._

Decision made, I pulled on my tennis shoes, no socks, and threw on my coat over my pajamas. Keys? Check. Camera? Check. Tape recorder? Check. I wasn't exactly running out the front door, but I wasn't exactly walking either.

*** * ***

Ahh! It's been too long since I've updated! Mea culpa. I promise never to let it sit this long again. In apology, please accept this 2-chapter chunk of _Telling_.


	6. v

John's house was dark and spooky-quiet when I arrived. I sat there until approximately half-past forever just debating with myself. "Work on that whole tact thing" is invariably at the top of my New Year's resolutions list, but somehow I haven't been able to make it stick yet. Not for lack of trying, but I have a pesky tendency to forget about things like that when I get all caught up in the moment. It happens a lot.

I took a deep breath and hopped out of the car. I'd gotten halfway across the lawn when a light upstairs clicked on. _Good_, I told myself.

When I knocked on the door, no one answered. "John? It's Chloe, open up." Knock knock. "I thought it might be better if I just came over tonight." The door clicked open when I leaned a little harder into it. "Hello?"

And so what else could I do but keep moving forward, right? Okay, that's a rhetorical question, because every single instinct that I have was screaming at me at that point, telling me that I should get outta there, like, yesterday. The light that I'd seen out on the lawn was glowing at the top of the stairs, but the rest of the house was dark.

"John?" I ventured, not really expecting an answer. It was definitely whistling in the graveyard at that point, I'm not about to lie.

I was halfway up the stairs when the light clicked off. In the dark, someone was breathing hard. It wasn't me. My eyes struggled to adjust themselves and I did my best to adopt a defensive stance. Not that standing on something as narrow as a stair made it a whole lot easier, but honestly, you can only play the damn damsel so many times before self-defense classes seem like a fantastically smart idea.

Forcing myself to breathe quietly and listen was one of the harder things I've ever had to do, but I heard the person coming, just the faint noise of shoe soles brushing along John's carpeted stairs. I punched forward, aiming for what I could only hope was the person's jaw, but what I actually hit was softer. An arm? A neck?

I was flung against the wall, and glanced off, slightly dazed. But even as I was falling, I lashed out and connected with something that must've been a shin or I'll give up my future membership in the Press Club. A strangled curse. Hands fumbled and then pressed hard around my neck.

White pricks of light burst in my vision. _I'm losing. Dammit._ I was passing out, and with my last surge of strength I managed to hook an ankle, sending us tumbling end over end. The hands around my neck loosened and then dropped away and I had approximately a nanosecond to be happy about that before the back of my head was introduced to the hard edge of a stair and I was passing out once more with feeling.

Fucking head trauma.

*** * ***

It wouldn't be fair or accurate to say that Lex stormed into my room at the Smallville Medical Center. There's no way he could ever be classified as just a mere generic meteorological phenomenon. Maybe something more like the Chinook. A Chinook wind is Important, with loads of history and cultural significance heaped up on top.

Lex Chinooked into my room at the Smallville Medical Center.

Not really the crack of dawn, but before official visiting hours no doubt. I squeezed the bridge of my nose and regarded him warily. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Tell me, Ms. Sullivan, do you have a death wish? If so, I can save you the trouble: they're highly overrated."

While the hypothetical death wish conversation had potential, I was willing to abandon it for the time being just to get a good head of righteous indignation going.

"I don't recall the part of this scenario where you somehow magically became my keeper."

He'd been walking up and down the side of my bed, snapping turns, pacing -- god help me, I can't think of a better analogy -- like a caged cat of some sort. Puma maybe. But the look he gave me when he stopped, mid-stride, had something like smothered laughter inside it. Whatever it was, it was unnatural. But he seemed to make a conscious effort to calm himself, which I took as a good sign, even if he was ignoring my objection. He moved to the foot of my bed and rested his hands lightly on the bedframe.

"Since your father is out of town, I..."

My face felt hot and my stomach clenched. "Okay, so you can stop right there. In fact, you can stop about ten seconds before you even _thought_ about saying anything. If you're only here to give me the old 'rash deeds versus masculine overprotectiveness' spiel you can forget about it, because it's too early for that."

"John is dead," he said quietly.

"What? How?" I'd never really _felt_ myself go pale before. Lex twitched a look sideways at the open door into the hall. "Close it if you want, Mulder. I really doubt anyone is listening." My voice was shaky and he took a moment to catch the reference.

He shut the door softly and returned to the foot of the bed. "Someone cut his throat. I've had people working on Dr. Richter's car. The job's professional. But there's a world of difference between someone who'd bomb a car and someone who'd slit a throat. Whoever did this is feeling threatened and getting vicious."

"Two different people could..."

Lex cut me off with a vehement shake of his head. "I can't believe you'd be stupid enough to think that." Okay _that_ stung. Below the belt, Luthor.

I folded my arms defensively over my stomach. The hospital blanket was scratchy. "Well, why don't you just tell me what you want me to think instead of making me guess," I demanded.

"I want you to let it drop, Chloe." Then he got this funny look on his face and I knew he was gearing up for a sermon of some sort, only I knew too that I had the upper hand in that one because Lex isn't really cut out for the whole preaching thing. Not at all, but I thought that I'd just let him get whatever it was off his chest. Good for the soul and everything. He was bent slightly at the waist and I noticed for the first time that his shirt was wrinkled where it peeked out of his suit jacket which is, in Luthor-land, a shocking level of messiness. "You did what you could for Dr. Richter, and then you did what you absolutely shouldn't have. It's enough that you're horrified, believe me. More than enough. In no way does your regret about anything that's happened mean that you should tie a cape over your shoulders and seek out trouble in the darkest alley you can find. It's time to have a little faith in the proper authorities."

"And by 'proper authorities' you mean you."

His hands tightened over the bedframe. "By 'proper authorities' I mean 'proper authorities.' You're letting it drop."

The perversity of the whole situation, the fucking tragic absurdity of the thing was that I completely _would_ have given it up. Probably. Finding out about John would have been enough. Except that Lex was still hovering at the foot of my bed looking kinda pissed and reluctantly admiring and pleased with himself in that way that only Lex can. And I hate being told what to do. Really. Fucking. Hate it.

"Maybe." I pulled my arms hard against my body.

"That's not good enough."

"Why do you even care? Why are you so pissed?"

Oh, but his eyes narrowed when I said that. Only a little, but I saw it. Because I wasn't supposed to notice his concern. Really, really wasn't. Maybe Lex wasn't used to people watching him and trying to figure him out instead of the other way around. Like I said before, I don't have any Grand Unified Lex Luthor Theory. "As much as I tried to deny it at first, Smallville is where I live."

"Not in your town, huh?"

"Something like that."

"So why can't you see how I feel? It's been my town longer."

"Your father..."

"Bullshit."

He shrugged elegantly. "Have it your way. Never let it be said that I didn't at least _try_." It all oozed with condescension like grape jelly out the end of a filled doughnut. Never in my entire life have I come across someone who could make me so angry so easily. I'm one hundred percent certain my cheeks were flaming red at that point. And he just stood there like it was nothing. But then it was nothing, wasn't it? Lex Luthor tells people to jump and then they do, not even bothering to ask "how high" because the answer would always be "as high as you can." And some of this is money and some of this is power and some of this is maybe the fact that he's a pretty decent looking guy in a way. An arrogant way, but still...

"Try what?" I prodded him. I couldn't resist prodding. It's like I had this brilliant flash of an epiphany and suddenly I knew _exactly_ where to poke. Just to get him to react to something. Just to see. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I always trip up. Because I see these openings and then I jump right into them without stopping to think about much of anything at all. Midair is a pretty crappy place to discover that you're heading for something with a false bottom, or no bottom at all really. "You're not my dad, and you're not responsible for me. I don't think we're even friends. And I don't think any of those things'll ever be true. And last time I checked, free will was something even Luthor money couldn't buy."

Ouch. There it was. And like so many of the other times when I've let my mouth outrun my better judgement, I regretted what I'd said almost immediately. I knew I had no business bringing money into it at all. Lex couldn't help the family he was born into, none of us can. And it would've been monumentally stupid to assume that he'd throw out his wealth just to be more "normal." Like me, right? Like I'm so normal.

"I wouldn't get the idea that you can print any of the things we've talked about," Lex said. Instantly (just add insults!) he'd gone all stiff and businesslike. "It was all strictly off the record."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I returned, hurt even though, logically, I knew it was a hit for a hit. Not that the idea of publishing an expose entitled _My Hospital Bed Conversation with Lex Luthor_ had ever crossed my mind, or it'd barely been there anyhow.

But he turned on his heel and he was leaving and I couldn't believe how horrible and guilty I felt. Never in my wildest dreams (or my strangest ones) did I ever once think that I might care how Lex Luthor felt about me or himself. At that moment, he was leaving and he thought I was an awful person and I don't even know why the hell that should've mattered to me, or why it still bugs me no end, really, except I've lost more friends over the years because of my big, tactless mouth. Did I just say "friend"? Because that's really not what I meant. I don't know what I meant.

"Look, I shouldn't have said that, okay?" His back was still facing me, but he wasn't moving. Instead, his head was tilted fractionally to one side, which was, I was learning, a _huge_ concession for him indicating an absolutely ginormous amount of interest. I found myself talking faster and faster, trying to fill up the space between us and the awkwardness I was feeling with tons of words. If I hit on the exact right one, I was sure that would make him not hate me anymore and all my guilt would magically evaporate. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not really the Wicked Witch of the West. It's just that everything's been so chaotic lately. And I wanted to help somehow...put stuff back together for people. And it wouldn't even matter if they knew it was me who did it. Just that it would be a good thing."

"It _would_ be a good thing," he agreed softly, right before turning around. There was an expression fading on his face, but I only caught the corner and couldn't tell what it'd been. Frustrating. He was quiet for a long time and I started to get twitchy. The smell of hospital antibacterial whatnot was encouraging the embryonic stages of a massive headache; the kind with full-on tapdancers going inside my skull. "It's _possible_ I overreacted," he said grudgingly. "Three years as Smallville's prime suspect are difficult to shake sometimes."

I hadn't really thought of it that way before. Part of the whole new "considering Lex Luthor's feelings" kick I was on. I uncrossed my arms. After all, I didn't want them to cramp. "I've got this terminal case of 'good intentions'. Never seems to work out quite right." I rubbed my temples. Lex's eyes flickered and before I really knew what he was doing, he handed me two aspirin and a small paper cup filled with water. "Thanks," I said, sounding way more amazed than was strictly polite.

One corner of his mouth curled up, then relaxed. "Don't sound so shocked," he advised dryly. "Someone might get the idea that you think I'm a terrible person."

"All the vast multitudes of people in this room, for example," I replied quickly. Whatever else I might think of him, conversations with Lex were nothing if not thrilling. It's an untested trapeze act, really. You throw yourself out there and hope that the other person knows enough to catch you before you hit the ground.

"For example," he agreed. There was that curl again.

"I guess only the one side works, huh?"

"Pardon?"

"You only ever smile with half your mouth."

"Really." There went the whole smile. It was nice. Very. _My my._ Lex lifted his cuff delicately and examined his watch. "As charming as this is, I have a meeting." And with the smile, there was a fraction of a second that I actually did believe he found it (me?) "charming".

"With your explosives people?" I asked automatically.

His face shut down so fast and so completely I swear I heard a clang and that unexpected smile seemed more and more as if it were just some figment of my addled imagination. "No. Believe it or not, I still have a business to run." He said it so coldly I felt like tucking the sheets tight under my chin just to protect myself.

"Don't you want to know what John told me?" I blurted out. Nevermind that John hadn't told me anything exactly. Lex didn't need to know that.

"I sincerely doubt your chip is large enough to bargain with." He wasn't sure! He wasn't! Not in what he said, but how he said it. I was jumping for joy, people.

I forced myself to be nonchalant. Calm, cool and collected was my middle name. Inside, I felt like there were about a thousand butterflies in my stomach and they were all doing some sort of contra dance thing. An Irish jig maybe. "If that's the way you feel," was all I said.

Lex looked at his watch again. "I'm leaving for another meeting in Metropolis at eleven. I can see you at ten thirty. Say hello to Clark and Pete for me."

Dammit, I'd forgotten all about them, but (of course, right?) Lex hadn't. If I lay around in the hospital waiting for them to come in and platitude me to death ("Could've gotten killed, Chloe", "Where angels fear to tread, Chloe") I wouldn't have enough time to do anything but try to think up new and exciting ways to kill myself with thought alone. By the time I'd gathered my wits enough to protest, Lex was gone.

Call me what you want, but I'm no effing pushover. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and tested them. Seemed steady enough so I hopped down, the cold floor sending a shock through me. I turned off the machine monitoring my heartbeat and checked the closet. Of course it occurred to me that I _could_ always have done things the official way, talked them into releasing me, but every second counts for so much to the girl without any sort of concrete plan. My shoes and coat were there. No sign of my pyjamas. I dressed hastily, thanked whichever god watches over heedless journalists that my room was on the first floor, unhooked the screen, raised the window and then I was gone too.

*** * ***

So I'm late with the update. Again. And I have a real, valid reason and stuff: I'm an idiot. I accidentally deleted my only copy of this story and so I'm recreating from memory. Sigh. It'll never be the same, but bear with me if you will, because it _will_ be finished.


	7. vi

It didn't take _too_ much wheedling to convince Chad that, no, he wasn't doing anything in particular with his morning and no, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than indulge me with a spot of housebreaking. Does anyone even call it 'housebreaking' anymore? When I was a kid, I read a story called _The Housebreaker of Shady Hill_ and the distinction stuck.

While I waited for Chad and his broken down Karmann Ghia (complete with rust patch in the vague shape of Texas on the passenger side door) to arrive, I changed my clothes and called Heinrich. A woman answered. Running through my mental list of "Things I Know About Heinrich", I remembered that his girlfriend's name was Ilise. Only I didn't want to call her that in case she wasn't Ilise anymore.

"I need to talk to Heinrich." Not even a "hello". Miss Manners would be so disappointed.

"Who is this?"

"Heinrich?" There was a banging sound and a muffled curse.

"Do you know what fucking time it is, Sullivan?"

"Nope, they took my watch at the hospital right before they taped up my ribs," I offered cheerfully. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would call at seven o'clock in the fucking morning? Never mind it's my day off."

"Never mind _I_ was in the hospital and you didn't even ask about that. So I guess we're pretty much even, right?"

"Your logic always was faulty. But I'm sure you didn't call up just to shoot the shit."

Heaven forbid. "I need information."

"Of course you do."

"It's important, Heinrich."

"It always is with you, dollface, I know. Life or death," he soothed. I love the way he says "dollface", with that Austrian accent that pulls out the vowels like taffy.

"Dr. Alexi Richter. Phone records."

"How soon?"

"Ten?"

"_A.M._?" A convincingly wolf-like howl came from the other end of the line. "You'll be the death of me yet." He sounded a little breathless and I figured he was probably digging under the bed for his shoes right about then. I smiled. Heinrich was such a secret softie.

"Heinrich, you're the best!"

"I know. How did you ever live without me, right?" he drawled. "_Loyaulté me lie_, sweet. Loyalty binds me."

"Exactly." Outside, Chad must've been leaning on his horn. "Oops, that's Chad. I gotta go."

"Come over to the house when you're done, okay?"

"Yeah."

I hung up the phone, grabbed my jacket and dashed out the door. Chad didn't stop blowing his horn until I'd opened the passenger side door and slid in.

"Your eyeliner's smudged. Here." I wiped his cheekbone with the side of my index finger.

"I doubt the cops'll care," Chad snapped, jerking his head away from my hand. I wasn't too concerned. Chad's natural state is something like mild exasperation. He feels more comfortable that way. And who am I to stand between a man and his comfort? He pulled away from the curb. "Have you figured out a way to get past them yet?"

"What? The fuzz? Oh sure." I hadn't actually, although I knew that Chad had a point. Every cop in Smallville would be at John's place. But a plan was developing. A doozy that'd get the police away from John's house and make sure Lex didn't leave town before I had a chance to talk to him. Two birds, as they say. Two birds.

"Because it's not like they'll just welcome you in with open arms," Chad snipped. "And who calls the police 'the fuzz'?" Poor little goth. He always gets bitchy when I drag him out in daylight.

Grinning widely at him, I fluttered my eyelashes. "Annoyingly antiquated slang is part of my esoteric appeal." It wasn't until two seconds after I reached for my cellphone that I remembered I'd left it in the glove compartment of my car, which, god willing, was sitting in front of John's house as long as it hadn't been impounded as evidence. Although, with my luck. _Dammit._ "Hey, let me borrow your phone?" Chad flipped me his phone without a word. "I'd close my ears for the next 30 seconds, unless you want to be considered an accessory."

"Chloe, what..." His eyes got big when he realized what I wanted to do. "No way."

But it was already ringing. Chad snatched at the phone, but I dodged him easily. "Eyes on the road," I advised, bobbing my chin upwards to show him where to look. "There's a bomb at the Luthor mansion," I told the dispatcher when she answered. I spoke quickly, pitching my voice lower and hanging up when I was done.

"You're crazy." Chad shook his head.

"Like a fox, maybe. They can't afford not to take it seriously. Smallville's most prominent citizen..."

"Who'll have you painfully and discreetly killed the second he realizes it was you."

"He's not as bad as you think." That earned an odd look from under Chad's heavily mascaraed lashes. He nervously flicked the tips of his nails. Half a dozen police cars passed us, heading in the opposite direction, their sirens blaring. "See? I was right."

"Never said you weren't right. Just that you were crazy," he muttered. He pulled the car smoothly to a stop about a block and a half from John's house. "Someone's gotta be looking out for our well-being!" he protested when I rolled my eyes at the distance.

"God, you're lily-livered," I observed, tugging him out of the car. "C'mon. They won't be gone forever."

Chad has a beautifully kept set of lockpicks that've been useful any number of times. Well, okay, the number of times has been three, but they were undeniably useful on each and every one of those three occasions. He explained to me once that his uncle was a locksmith and that the picks were an old set of his. Chad's uncle had made him take a rigged-together oath he'd come up with himself before he so much as _touched_ the picks.

"It was this completely insane version of the locksmith oath. I think they make them all take it so that locksmiths don't use their powers for evil or anything," Chad'd explained to me.

Every once in a while, I remember to bug Chad about his vague promise to teach me how to pick a lock. There's only so far a girl can go in this life with the jiggle of a credit card. He's never quite gotten around to it though, but I accept the forgetfulness with equanimity. It's like a little postcard from Chad's subconscious that tells me he doesn't really mind occasionally playing Clyde to my Bonnie.

I bounced lightly on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight at the same time. "While we're young?" I murmured, swiveling my head nervously. I'm not ashamed to admit that my palms were sweating a bit. But I scrubbed them vigorously on my jeans.

"This is an _art_," Chad protested. Or at least that's what I assume he said. He had one of the picks clamped gently between his lips, while he dipped two of the others in the lock. The noises that actually came out of his mouth were more like: "Iffs is a _arr_." I'll leave it up to posterity to decide whether what I thought he said was actually what he said.

The door clicked open.

"Have I told you lately that I'm passionately in love with you?" I enthused.

"Not since the last time I did this for you," Chad returned dryly.

"Oh. Well, there's time for that later. C'mon." I pulled him into the house and shut the door behind us. One great thing about being Bonnie is that I can focus on Chad's twitchiness instead of my own nagging fears.

I'd been in John's house once before, for an interview. He'd explained his whole-house filing system to me then. A place for everything. His rooms were organized roughly by category, although the order within those rooms left a lot to be desired. He'd showed me his study almost bashfully.

"It seems awfully fussy," he'd explained. "To have a study, I mean."

"I guess you call your garage a 'car hole' too?" He'd laughed at that, catching the _Simpsons_ reference straight off.

"I'm not quite that far gone," he'd admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

I grabbed Chad's hand and led him upstairs. "If there's anything here, it'll either be in the study or the bedroom," I told him softly. Even though there was no reason to be quiet. "Down there."

John's study was stuffy and hot and close. I cleared a spot for myself in front of his desk and started sifting through his papers. Up till then, none of it'd quite hit me yet, I guess. But the things make up the person and that's what was hard. All those things I hadn't known because I hadn't really known John: a brochure from some east coast sailing school, ticket stubs from the smokiest little jazz club in Metropolis, video dating? God. But as difficult as it was to see and realize how little I'd known about him, it was more frustrating that none of it was giving me any idea about who'd want to murder him or why.

Felt like I'd been hunched over for about a hundred years by the time Chad poked his head into the room. He was dusty, and when he swiped his hand across his sweating forehead, he left a smear of muddy dirt. Perspiration was beading on my upper lip, pooling in the valley between my shoulder blades.

"Any luck?" I asked hopefully.

"Nah. You?"

"Interesting stuff, yes. Spectacularly useful, not so much." I frowned. "This all makes it harder," I admitted, ruffling idly through another pile of papers.

"It's not your fault. You're doing everything you can." My head snapped up at that. Chad's not an overly demonstrative person. But I must've looked too amazed because he scowled. "I'm not about to get in trouble with the cops because I had to give you a happy sunshine daisy pep talk. Let's go."

"I hope Heinrich's having ten times the luck we did."

"Ten times nothing being nothing." Aaand the universe clicked back into place. That was more like it.

"Semantics."

"Reality?"

"Whatever."

*** * ***


	8. vii

Praise be to the gods of journalism, fickle bastards though they often are, that my car was still sitting in front of John's house and not unfairly impounded down at the Smallville police station. Stealing back my car from the police hadn't really been number one on my list of things to do with my day. I retrieved my spare key from the magnetic box stuck to the undercarriage, hugged Chad goodbye and solemnly promised to call him later.

I even made a mental note to forgive him for looking just the tiniest bit glad to be rid of me. Chad's not usually that type of adventurous. And I understand that. The routines of his life cycle between his job at the morgue and the poorly lit recesses of Metropolis' goth clubs. Poor little goth.

When I pulled up to the curb at Heinrich's house, he was sitting on his front steps, coffee in hand. He waved me over with his mug and some of the liquid slopped over the top. His navy and burgundy robe was tied loosely at his waist and his usually chic-messy chestnut hair was genuinely messy.

"Remind me again how you get into these situations."

"I'm not answering that on the grounds that it's a rhetorical question," I replied, sitting next to him on the steps.

"No, it's not."

"Well, it should be."

"Never mind. You'll save the world someday, sweetheart."

"Damn straight."

He handed me a stack of papers. "Dr. Alexi Richter. Phone records."

"Heinrich, I could kiss you!"

"Promises, promises," he said lightly.

It's funny the training that Hollywood gives you. You always expect something big. Some intricate, multifaceted conspiracy like a crazy cat's cradle, all twisted motives and tangled leads. Red herrings laid carefully in the path of the Intrepid Investigator. Gunshots at midnight. The Mysterious Stranger who breezes into town right before the trouble starts. Sometimes (you have to admit), the whole situation is ludicrously like the setup to some Scooby Doo mystery, only without quite so many meddling kids.

Either that or meteor freaks.

Lots and lots of meteor freaks.

Glowing green, fueled by a rock-induced vendetta against humanity in the general or the specific, like zombies straight out of Ed Wood's wildest wet dream. In Smallville, the freaks and the plots are the devil I know.

But what I found in Dr. Richter's phone records was definitely in the category of e) none of the above. There were a few local numbers, but only one long distance. Richard Marks. But the name wasn't familiar to me, not even in passing. Funny how I'd assumed that it might be. I guess that made him the devil I don't. But the name appeared too frequently to escape anyone's attention. He might be family, a very dear friend, a lover (he'd almost have to be, given the sheer number of times his number popped up).

"What's this?" I asked Heinrich.

"Metropolis by the area code. You know this guy?"

"Not at all." I shook my head.

"But you know someone who does, right? Or someone who can wangle an introduction?"

"I know someone who can wangle a lot of things."

"I'm sure you do." He kissed me sleepily on the cheek and climbed to his feet. "I hope you're not in over your head."

"Who, me? Never. Say 'hi' to Ilise for me."

Heinrich stiffened. His face went pale. "You didn't..."

"I wouldn't. Not in a million years."

"It's Amy now."

"Should I even bother?"

"Someday you'll have to see what all the fuss is about, dollface."

"Mm hm." He'd closed the door on me before I realized what I'd sort of agreed to.

*** * ***

No sign of Lex when I got to his house. I did see just about every cop in the world though, and (of course) Clark right smack dab in the middle of things. My first impulse was to throw the car into reverse and get the hell outta Dodge. Because Lex had to be around somewhere in town, right? Just because I didn't see him right there didn't mean...well, it didn't mean anything.

But Clark caught sight of me before I'd fully decided whether to stay or go. His long legs ate up the distance between us, but he stopped about a foot away.

"You're supposed to be at the hospital, Chloe."

"And you're supposed to be at school," I fired back.

"Someone called in a bomb threat to Lex's house."

"I know."

His eyes narrowed in this completely freaky, non-Clarklike way. I realized with a start that he was as close to fully angry as I'd ever seen him. "How do you know?"

"Um...because it was me?"

"What!" He started to take a step towards me, but then thought better of it and rocked back on his heels.

"Look, I don't really have time to explain right now. Have you seen Lex?"

"The sheriff said he left about half an hour ago. And that he seemed kinda pissed."

"Dammit. Do you know Lex's cell phone number?"

He scowled like crazy, but he still scribbled down Lex's number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. "When you're finished talking, I'm taking you back to the hospital."

"I don't need to go back to the hospital."

"It's nonnegotiable, Chloe," he said sternly.

"Funny, that's exactly how I feel." I punched in Lex's number and looked at Clark pointedly before moving out of earshot. Lex answered on the second ring. "You lied to me."

"You called in a bomb threat to my house. I'd be well within my rights to have you arrested."

"You _lied_ to me. We had an agreement."

"Which became null and void the instant the idea of a bomb threat crossed your mind."

"Incrimination by thought and not deed seems a little harsh to me."

"Not when thought is immediately followed by deed," Lex said pointedly. "How did you get this number anyhow? Not that I'd ever be one to question your motives."

"Oh, not at all. Clark."

"What's Clark doing there?"

"It's a crime scene. It's Clark." Even though he was standing about a hundred yards away, I swear I saw Clark's ears prick up when I mentioned his name. I moved further away, skirting the row of ornamental boxwoods at the edge of Lex's lawn.

"Point taken. We have nothing more to talk about, Ms. Sullivan."

"Richard Marks!" I managed before he could hang up on me.

"What did you say?"

"Not that you'd care or anything, but Dr. Richter was calling someone in Metropolis named Richard Marks an awful lot before he died."

"Chloe, I want you to listen to me very carefully." His voice was suddenly all grim and serious. "Dr. Richard Marks is the man I was scheduled to meet at 11. He called a few minutes after I talked with you and cancelled. But I doubt he was even in Metropolis to begin with."

"You think he's here," I said flatly. Even though I was standing smack dab in the middle of a patch of sunlight, and even though the day was on the warm side for a Smallville spring, I was absolutely clenching my teeth to keep from shivering. "And you think he knows about what I've been doing?" (What was that, exactly?) "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to go home, lock all your windows and doors and avoid anyone you don't know." He said it slowly as if he were talking to a child or a particularly intelligent dog.

"I was hoping for something a little more helpful," I snapped. "You don't even trust me to notify the proper authorities?"

"Clark Kent does not count as the 'proper authorities.'"

"You don't know me as well as you think you do," I assured him, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice. The police were clearing out, and with each one that left, I felt more and more exposed. The hairs at the back of my neck prickled as if someone were watching me. You better believe I did my damnedest to shake off the feeling. "Do you know what this Dr. Marks looks like?"

"Medium height, brown hair, average build."

"Fantastic. You've just described about half the people in the Western hemisphere. Anything else? Distinguishing marks? Facial hair, tattoos, body jewelry, decorative branding of any kind?"

"Now is not the time for flippancy," Lex said tensely.

"Who's being flip? I'm trying to save my own ass here."

"My mistake," he drawled. "Why don't you just assume Dr. Marks is anyone you don't know and leave it there."

"Sure. Fine."

He hung up and almost instantly, Clark was at my side, tugging me toward my car. "C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"I said I was taking you back to the hospital."

"And _I_ said it was nonnegotiable," I insisted, pulling my hand free of his grasp. "Look, Clark, I'm going to go home, lock the door and tie a big, honkin' string of garlic around my neck. That should keep the freaks away. And you can go and be educated in peace."

"What about you?"

I reached way way up and patted his cheek comfortingly. "I don't have the honor of a year's worth of perfect attendance to uphold."

That earned a reluctant, but brilliant-as-always, smile. He hooked his arm through mine and walked me to my car. "I know things've been...different, Chloe."

_Oh crap. Not now._ Not that the talk wasn't long overdue. Or that there weren't things we needed to say to each other, just.... "We can talk about that later, okay?"

"Okay." I forced myself to move slow. No whirling. Just turning. Don't run. Ease into the car. Shut the door. I rolled down the window and gave him my best everything-is-normal! grin. "I'll be fine, Clark. I promise." Once the engine started, I executed a neat three-point turn and raced down the hill, trying to put as much difference between me and my past mistakes as possible.


	9. viii epilogue

So of course it stood to reason, given my sometimes-pathological inability to keep promises, that someone who could only be Dr. Richard Marks was waiting for me to get home. I didn't see him until I'd locked the car door. He came swooping out of the shadows between the garage and the house just like he was Count freaking Dracula or something similar.

Except that he was on the short side, sandy hair fading. Not even a long set of fangs, black cloak, maniacal laugh to chill my young blood. But I guess the point of having a nice, shiny switchblade is that it does all the intimidation for you anyhow.

And what could I do? Faced with such a monstrosity? I cursed loudly and dropped my keys. Or maybe it was that I dropped my keys and then cursed loudly. At any rate, I pounded up the front steps, wondering how I'd manage to dig up the spare house key dad kept in the pot of begonias on the porch. Too slow. Too slow. He was behind me. I plunged my fingers into the dirt at random, wishing to god that we hadn't decided to go all creative with the spare quite so damn much. I mean, really, one of those fake rock things is good enough for most people.

That's when he caught me, fingers pulling at my hair. Hard enough to bring tears to my eyes and the world dissolved away into a pretty watercolor blur. My neck twisted back. For one cold instant, I knew for absolutely certain that he was going to kill me. Cut my throat like John's and leave me to bleed to death on the front porch.

Except no. No. fucking. way. I stomped hard on his instep and felt his hands loosen. Throwing myself forward, I was free (and judging by the pain alone, missing a lawn-sized chunk of hair from the back of my head). At that point, I was operating on about a million instincts I didn't even know I had, and so even if I couldn't see him behind me, I felt him reaching. But my feet, happy feet, were pelting away from him. I vaulted clumsily over the side railing on the porch and remembered at the last second to roll as much as possible. Good thing dad had put down a new layer of mulch, but I'd have a lot of 'splainin' to do about his smooshed irises. The scent of earth and cured wood chips filled my nose and mouth.

For one crazy moment I considered stopping. Turning, arms raised, white flag in hand. I didn't know anything, honestly, and yeah, maybe this time I was in way far over my head and could we just forget this whole thing ever happened? Honest I will, Mister. If you'll just let me go back to biting off exactly as much as I can chew from now on. And I promise to forget all about you forever and never give you anymore trouble.

What a load, huh?

Staggering upright, I forced myself forward. My ribs ached and I had a funny kind of twinge in both ankles. Open, oh-so-treeless lawns in every direction and that hedge maze, thickety thing straight ahead.

My breath was so loud in my ears, I almost couldn't hear Dr. Marks behind me. I didn't want to hear him. When aerobic respiration isn't enough to bring oxygen to your muscles, anaerobic respiration kicks in. Lactic acid build up. Burning muscles. Thank you seventh grade biology.

I reached the tiny creek that ran along the back of the housing development. When we moved in, I'd thought it was so very picturesque. Sylvan and sparkling and a whole bunch of other pretty woodland adjectives. Those moss-covered rocks were a little slice of heaven right then, you bet.

One of my feet slipped and I went down hard. The only thing that kept me moving at that point was that I could see the brush just beyond the water. My strength was fading. But, oh, that thickety thing was lovely, dark and deep. (I'm stealing, but I don't think Robert Frost will mind one little bit.)

And then I was inside. This is always the point in the Nancy Drew mysteries where her dad, her spunky friends or her boyfriend are on their way with approximately eight bajillion cops. Nancy never knows it, but we always do. I wasn't deluding myself that any of those people were coming for me. Carson Drew and Ned Nickerson wouldn't know what on earth to do with me if they got me anyhow.

I wound a crooked path through the bushes. They were probably scratching me, but I don't really remember. I can only say for sure that I found the raised, red marks on my skin later. After everything else. Like some crazy roadmap to nowhere. My breath sounded loud in my ears. Gale force. But I heard Dr. Marks crash through and that was enough for me. I dropped to the ground and crawled for all I was worth. Nevermind the rocks and thorns and piles of rotting leaves. Nevermind the bugs. Nevermind that I still sounded (to me) like Hurricane Chloe. There was definitely a point where I had to stop and try to quiet my breathing. Although I wasn't exactly fabulously successful. My chest felt like it was about to pop. And when I'd gotten my inhalations down to big, silent gulps I moved again.

In the end, turned around and exhausted, I found myself in a smallish clearing. Completely unplanned, but I stood up quickly. Because he was still coming and Dylan Thomas says "do not go gentle" etc. Who was I to get on the wrong side of Dylan Thomas?

I was absolutely at the end of my strength. Chloe's Last Stand. I could only pray that it'd go better than Custer's. My kingdom for a spray container full of mace.

The branch I picked up from across the clearing did the job in a pinch. It was heavier than it looked. Or I was more tired than I felt. But I had to do it. What kind of reporter would I make if I couldn't even save myself every once in awhile? And how could I let him get away with anything he'd done? I hadn't been lying when I told Lex that catching John's killer would be a good thing. Maybe good with a capital "G" even.

Ready as I'd ever be, I waited.

Time seemed to stretch like taffy. My legs felt fluffy underneath me, like my whole body was suddenly made out of cotton candy and might tear at the slightest provocation. Slowly, infinitely slowly, I raised the branch over my head. My arms shook. Sweat dripped into my eyes and the salt stung. I blinked it away as best I could.

He was coming. I could hear him.

The instant his head began to poke out of the underbrush I started my swing. Pouring all of my strength into my arms. Down. Down. Down. For that moment, that lasted far longer than it should have, I was strong. Rooted. Blooming.

My breath caught, but then he fell. Oh thank god. My own legs crumbled under me and I eased down after him, still trembling. Aftershocks of my own personal earthquake.

The first time my eyes drifted closed, I snapped them open. My head was tilted at this funny angle. I could see a trickle of blood, like a tiny river, slipping out from under Dr. Marks' hair. I could hear the wind and the stream. Eucalyptus and pine.

And voices calling my name. Calling for me. The intrepid girl reporter. I tried to respond, but my own voice came out in a reedy gasp. There wasn't anything left in me for yelling. In the dark under my eyelids, the world seemed to be spinning and spinning.

Next thing I knew, I was being hoisted up. I peeked. Lex. He supported me, cradling my elbows, shoring me up like he was a flying buttress and I was a French Gothic church. If he'd let go I would have fallen. I could feel the muscles in his forearms shifting under his clothes.

"Would you believe I was trying to do exactly what you told me?" I managed.

I'm still not sure if the odd little strangled sound that came out of him would have been a laugh or a shout. The air filled with static. He was looking at me in this way that was definitely intense and maybe a tiny bit beautiful.

And this is about where we came in: exhausted, filthy, lost and kissed. If this were a painting, it'd be a surrealist one, no doubt.

*** * ***

It was one of the harder things I've ever had to do, but in the end I told Dad everything. Even though everything I knew wasn't awfully much at all. But Pete and Clark insisted. And Chad and Heinrich. Lana insisted.

_I_ insisted.

I don't know what Lex would've said. He's been making himself studiously scarce. Developing an uncanny knack for breezing out of a place just as I've set foot inside. Not in any crass I've-seen-you-and-now-I-must-go way, but in a very spookily well-bred precognitive way.

But anyway.

Dad listened to my story. Hugged me fiercely, bruised ribs and sprained ankles be damned. Kissed me thoughtfully on the forehead and grounded me for two solid months.

So it's Saturday afternoon (cruelest of all cruel days for the grounded girl, so far from a weekday where she can go to school and at least pretend she's free) and I'm nearing the end of my sentence. At the moment, I'm sitting on an overturned milk crate, putting the last coat of chartreuse paint on my dresser, a chocolate biscotti clenched between my teeth. The thing about being cooped up in the house for so long -- you realize just how much certain things could use a change. The sun is warm on my shoulders and there's a twinge of honeysuckle in the air.

We've successfully negotiated the springtime rainstorms without any of the good people of Smallville getting washed away in the process. No one even had to build the tiniest of arks this year, although there was (as always) good work to be had for those whose business involves pumping water out of flooded basements. Dad and I were wading a couple times, but we made do with buckets and mops and elbow grease.

He's in the process of tearing up the back garden. He dreamed up an elaborate system of multi-tiered rose trellises this year and when I suggested that it looked like nothing so much as the lost city of the Aztecs, he tossed a clump of freshly-mown grass in my general direction. Right now he's gone off to the nursery to pick up the climbing rose plants he ordered way back in March. Although I suspect he won't hurry straight home. Because I also suspect that he's sweet on Laurel, the nursery manager. Not sure what I think about that one, but I don't have time to dwell because the hand that settles on my shoulder surprises the hell outta me. My head snaps up, sending the long portion of the biscotti flying off into the grass a good twenty feet away.

"That was certainly unexpected." We stare each other down for a while. I bite down on the butt of the biscotti and chew thoughtfully.

"Dad's not here."

"I'm not here to see your father."

"Come to visit me in the pokey then?"

Lex makes a minor show of looking around at the sunlit yard. "Some pokey."

"Stone walls do not a prison make..."

"Nor iron bars a cage. Trite but appropriate."

"Ouch."

The silence is fairly uncomfortable. Shame that. And Lex is businessing up, which I now realize is less his natural state and more a highly-developed and flawlessly executed defense mechanism. It makes me sad to think about, really.

"Richard Marks' case is in appeal," he tells me quickly, skirting as close to awkward as I'm sure he'll ever get.

"You'll get him," I say, not so much as encouragement, but because it's a fact.

Lex shakes his head slightly. "I wouldn't be so sure. Dr. Marks and Dr. Richter were working together on an independent project. Alternative energy with domestic and...foreign applications."

I understand that by "foreign applications" he means "weapons." The math on that one is ridiculously simple. Division leading to subtraction. Profit divided one way instead of two. Laid out like that, it's all so petty and sordid and awful.

"Why?" That didn't come out right at all. I mean, could I sound more naive? Only I don't want to give Lex that impression. Because I know why two people are dead. Even if I wished for there to be more, just to make it so all of it had any kind of greater meaning, beyond enhancing someone's net worth.

For the moment, I'm intently studying the way the blades of grass cast shadows on my bare feet. I pick up one of my yellow-trimmed work gloves using only my toes and drop it again. The leather sticks to my skin a bit. When I gather my courage enough, I'll be ready to face Lex. Not that I'm afraid exactly. It's the certainty that he'll be disappointed that keeps my eyes down. There's a door that shuts somewhere, I've seen it happen before, and it'll lock away that weird, beautiful face from before. All for the price of one dumb-kidism.

"Ambition gone to seed becomes mania," he suggests quietly.

"Is that personal experience?" I ask automatically before clapping both hands over my big, stupid mouth. God.

"On the contrary, I'd say the experience was on the impersonal side."

When I look, he's wearing that half smile. I'm pretty shocked by how familiar and comfortable it seems. "You're laughing at me."

"You're brandishing that pop psychology like a weapon. I can't sit idly by and do nothing."

"Perish the thought. I don't imagine finishing your story about Dr. Marks and Dr. Richter ranks up there with antagonizing me, but..."

"There's not much to tell. Their research was funded privately, personal funds. Although there are still funding sources unaccounted for. Misappropriation of..." And here's the businessman again, ladies and germs.

I tear some grass out with my toes and take pity.

"Hedgehogs."

"Hedgehogs?"

"They're very popular right now. Do you know how many hedgehogs are in a litter?"

"My education suddenly seems lacking."

"Do you know how much they sell for?"

"Are you trying to say that Dr. Richter funded his research with _hedgehogs_?"

"Maybe partially."

And the most amazing thing happens. Lex laughs. Not a weird, underdeveloped thing, but a genuine laugh. It's only once, but it's rich and full and good.

It's gone almost as quickly as it came and I miss it immediately. It's a little disturbing to think that I might make a serious hobby out of trying to get Lex laughing. He's über-serious now, though. Uh oh.

"I want to apologize for the other day."

I try my darnedest to wave it away. "Not necessary," I say lightly.

"No. I was out of line."

"If you really want me to accept your apology, I will. And thank you."

"For...?"

I open my arms as wide as they'll go and then let them drop against my sides. "For helping to put everything back in place. And for half-rescuing me. For visiting me in the pokey." I hold out my hand and he takes it. We shake. His palms are smooth, except where I can feel the little callouses from where he grips the fencing foil. I can't tell if the soft tangle of fingertips at the end is entirely accidental or not.

One of his eyebrows twitches up. "You can return the favor someday."

I'm not sure if it's him or me or both of us together who silently add: _"Will you?"_

"You never can tell," I reply.

**end.**

*** * ***

**the author's note at the end of the story:** Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed! I really appreciate the feedback. Chloe's voice is amazingly fun to try to capture and I thought it would be an interesting challange to write a story with Chlex-ish leanings that wasn't a future fic per se. Despite my moment of disastrous computer idiocy, this was a lot of fun to write. I'm currently weighing my options for a sequel, so we'll see. Thanks again for reaching the end of this with me!


End file.
